Turning a Corner

by Roger Tunsley

It’s Sunday evening,
around nine o’clock.
My wife, Kathy, and
I are watching TV. I turn to her and ask
if she would like anything – a snack or
a drink. Then I suddenly remember;
I have a scan in the morning and I’m
not supposed to have anything to eat
or drink after eight o’clock. I mention
this to Kathy, and then we both realize
what’s happened and we grin at each
other. I’ve turned a corner.

In 2006, I was diagnosed with Stage
III esophageal cancer. The memory of
that moment is as clear as this morning’s
breakfast, but the rest of that day is a
mystery. The world stopped with the
word – cancer. It twisted and bounced
inside my skull like some awful screensaver.
I saw the doctor’s lips moving,
but I was not taking anything in at all.
Luckily, Kathy was with me, and although
deeply shocked herself, she
was able to remember the important
information.

My treatment was successful. Chemo
and radiation, followed six weeks later
by the removal of my esophagus and a
good portion of my stomach, the remains
of which were pulled up into
my chest and reconnected.

I returned to work two months after
the surgery. Life was good. But in a
month, I was due for a check-up and a
CAT scan. A gray cloud of anxiety grew
overhead. By the day of the scan, the
gray cloud of anxiety had become a black
storm-cloud of paranoia. I was scared.

I had to wait three days for the results.
The storm cloud stayed in place.
I was not easy to be around. But the
scan was clear. The sun appeared, and
the cloud melted away.

Three months later, I had another
scan. The storm cloud was there
again. Again, all was clear, and the
cloud disappeared.

By the day of the scan, the gray cloud of
anxiety had become a black storm-cloud
of paranoia.

The doctors now suggested that I
move on to a six-month scan routine.
They told me that statistics indicated
there was no difference in survival
rates between three- and six-month
scans in cases like mine. They acknowledged
that many people needed
the emotional support of scans, but
that it was unnecessary in time, cost,
medical resources, and more importantly,
why submit yourself to yet
more radiation when you’ve already
had a lot during treatment? I agreed,
of course. I trusted these people
with my life.

But as the day of the check-up got
closer, my cloud of apprehension reappeared.
Here come the dark thought
processes. All of the intellectual points
of three months ago were for nothing.

On the day of the check-up, I looked
the doctors squarely in the eyes and
told them that I would prefer to have
a scan. Now, if you please. My tone
was measured and calm. My voice was
steady and low. But they both looked
into the windows of my eyes and saw
the emotional meltdown going on inside,
the petulant little boy in there, jumping
up and down and screaming “I want
one, I want one, I want one!” and that
he wasn’t going to stop until he got
one. Hey, it worked when I was six.

It also works when you’re sixty, apparently.
They both smiled thinly and
said, “Certainly, if you want one, you
can have one.” I had to make a deal,
though. If I had one now, I’d definitely
move into a six-month routine from
now on. “And no sulking or tantrums
in August” was
the unspoken
message.
I got my
scan, and I was
clear once more.
We had a further
chat about
the risks of continued
radiation,
and I agreed that
from now on, it would be every six
months. And so it was.

Which brings me to my most recent
scan. I had actually forgotten about it
until the evening before. I looked up,
and the storm cloud wasn’t there. I have
moved on, into a new, less anxious place.

I’m not naïve enough to consider
myself cured. I know that the risk of
recurrence is ever-present. I understand
that we are all different in how we perceive
and respond to risk and fear. But
there was a time, not too long ago, when
I did not believe that I would ever lose
the storm cloud of fear. I’ve turned the
corner – out of the shadows and into
the sunshine.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Roger Tunsley has lived in
Sharon, MA, with his wife, Kathy, since 1989.
In April 2006, Roger was diagnosed with
Stage III esophageal cancer. After undergoing
treatment at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical
Center, he has remained cancer free.

This article was published in Coping® with Cancer magazine,
May/June
2010.